


someday they'll be buried side by side—cold hearted killers (once honest and upright and clean)

by nante



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bonnie & Clyde, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Crimes & Criminals, Gunplay, M/M, Steve is mentioned, and then they fuck, bucky and tony steal things and run, bucky has a gun, bucky reads it, good ol' southern drawl, my search history is full of 30s slang terms, set during the Great Depression, tony is an open book, tony likes guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 00:23:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nante/pseuds/nante
Summary: Anthony Stark was born in Long Island, New York, in 1910 and then moved to West Dallas with his mother after the death of his father in ‘29. In 1931 he worked in a café before beginning his career of crime.James Barnes was born to a family of sharecroppers in Illinois. As a young man he became a small-time thief and robbed a gas station. He served two years for armed robbery and was released on good behavior in 1931.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> any mistakes are my own

_July, 1931._

 -

_**He has seen the world from the gutter up** _

_**It left him with a bitter taste** _

 -

Tony Stark grinds his heels into the dirt ground below him as he exits the diner, wiping his hands with a barely clean rag as he trudges towards the lot where his car’s parked. All week he’s been tasked with closing up after his night shift. The extra buck in his weekly pay is barely worth it, but there aren’t many more ways to make ends meet in the middle of hard times. He’s a waiter for god’s sake. And Tony’s never heard of any good diner hiring boys as waiters. Birdies and jailbait bring home the pork from most considered usual (the ever so fleeting  _unusual_ man, he gets a bit more than a secretive wink from).

Tony complains frequently. He verbally pukes on the backwater establishment that employs him from the moment he clocks in till he locks the doors behind him and leaves for home. He knows he hates it, but he won’t quit. What else is there for him? He’s clever enough to know that he’s trapped in this town like a caged rat, and retiring his only source of income might turn his dull life impossibly more stale. Only god knows why he hasn’t been let go yet.

With a head on his shoulders that runs a mile a minute, Tony can at least recognize that he doesn’t belong in such a mediocre, small town, working such a mediocre, small job. Menial tasks don’t do it for him. A menial lifestyle will never satisfy him. Tony Stark wants more; needs it. And besides, he is so goddamn  _bored, bored, bored._  

It isn’t nearly his fault—that’s what he tells himself for validation—couldn’t be. He blames Howard, and justly so. Howard who oh-so-intelligently booked it all in the market before the crash. That was 2 years ago, and Tony’s gone from living in the glorious melting pot of New York, the fabulous backbone of a developing United States, the zestfully flavored cultural madhouse always filled with a certain smell of opportunity in the air that Tony might be able to remember better if he could only stop inhaling crisp Texas dust.

He’s sure his lungs are rotting. He needs a cigarette. 

He’d had it going for him. Oh, New York! He’d just bought his own car! Tony, he’d had plans! To finish school, invest in stock, and take up a semi-mantle in his father’s slow-growing movie business. To travel the country, the world. To make something worthwhile of his life for himself, for society!  _He’d had a life!_

When the stock market crashed, the banks impounded every last bit of capital owned by the Starks.

Howard, if he had one, damn his soul, lept from the Bank of Manhattan Trust building, and his mother used the last of their funds to buy two train tickets to West Dallas, where her parents offered empty property. There was no funeral; even less tears.

- 

_**The multitudes staring down at him** _

_**As though he was human waste** _

_-_

The drive to and from work takes roughly five minutes, and is easily walking distance, but his grandmother gave his mother this old car, and Maria refuses to find work here, so she lets Tony use it, and he’d be a fool to deny something that reminds him of home, reminds him of those zestfully bustling streets, cabs always bumper to bumper.

He greets a silent house, but isn’t worried about where his mother might be as much as how much he needs  _sleep._

_All so he can wake up, and repeat._

- 

_**He’s not the person they think they see** _

_**Oh no, he’s more than that** _

- 

“Hell!”

Tony’s trousers are rumpled somewhere on the floor. His window is wide open, but that hardly matters when he's discretely minding his business from the second floor. There’s a nice breeze blowing that feels pleasant against his bare skin.

His wrist is being chafed by the elastic of his jockey briefs, and he’s built up a healthy sweat. Tony tilts his head back, unruly curls pressed flat against his thin pillow. His lips are parted, wet, his dominant hand working a tight, sensual stroke. Tony bends his sock-covered toes as he works towards his finish, and just as he’s finally getting there, lithe hips jerking as he releases a bliss-packed sigh, there’s a louder than faint, unusual noise carried in through the window. Tony sits up abruptly, thighs still twitching, with an irritated expression spread out on his face.

Promising himself to clean them later, he pulls his hand from his briefs, wipes it on the edge of his bed sheet, and approaches the window.

_The hell is he doing? Who even is that?_

- 

_**He’s paid his debt to society** _

_**But still, they won’t let him be** _

-

“Hey boy! That’s my ma’s car!” Tony’s voice carries easy through the silence, and he can see by a straightening posture that the man in his driveway is now aware of him. Tony suddenly feels conscious of his nudity.

It’s dark out, and this must be someone new in town, because everyone on the block knows Tony works the night-shift, and he takes his ma’s car to get there (most people in this town know everything about their next door neighbor’s next door neighbor). No one he’s aware of would so boldly try and make away with it at this time of night. That’s  _his_  car, and he wants to know what kinda grifter would try and steal it half an hour till his miserable shift.

Pushing his head out the window of his dingy bedroom, Tony squints at the guy who’s now feeling ballsy enough not to make a break for it. The guy who instead is staring right back at him,  _and shouldn’t he have scampered off by now?_

Borderline interest can go along way, Tony supposes, because now he’s curious, and he can practically feel the boldness radiating off of this man. For god’s sake, a bonafide criminal is just standing there in his driveway.  _Staring_. And it isn’t the best idea, or much of a good one at all, but Tony can’t help himself as he opens his mouth again.

“Wait there!” Tony calls, now really not expecting the guy to stick around for much longer after being caught red handed, yet still half-hoping he does. Any excuse to get him from clocking in at the diner is an exceptional one, although clocking in late with an excuse like, “I roughed up some pinheaded scamp trying to snatch at my ma’s car,” will probably fly like Icarus with his boss.

Tony slams the window shut and is hurriedly yanking up his work shorts within the next handful of seconds. He grimaces, because he’s since learned that expecting anything too interesting out of this town for that guy not to have booked it by now, is awfully far-fetched of him, no matter how much he hopes it’s not. That, and his dick is still a touch sensitive. If anything, hopefully this criminal, this  _attractive from a distance_  asshole isn’t rolling through town for just a pit-stop and some quick, simpleton theft.

- 

_**He now rides this road that was paved for him** _

_**By those who had his soul** _

-

When he’s gotten himself semi-presentable for his night shift, Tony slinks outside with half a high hope that he won’t be alone with his ma’s jalopy and broken window glass. There’s nothing of much value in the car, but who is he to tell what a klepto might pull after getting busted by his potential victim. 

Surprisingly enough, when Tony exits the front door, he’s still got close company. 

The guy is leaning against the car, way too casually for someone who had obviously intended to steal it, and had gotten caught in the process. But that casualty isn’t the first thing Tony makes note of. The first? He wouldn’t mind sucking this guy’s knob for a dime.

“That’s my ma’s car,” Tony repeats, raising his brows, “you wouldn’t steal from an old lady, would you now? And she doesn’t let up for strangers. That means no free rides, and no borrowed ones either, mister.”

- 

_**So now, with regard, he accepts this fate** _

_**And plays this awful role** _

 

  **“James Buchanan Barnes.”**

Tony pauses. He understands it’s the the thief's name, but he’s beginning to get distracted, and not because this man is making an effort of introducing himself after being caught attempting theft.

 _Because_  he’s got an one of those instant, undeniable feelings of attraction towards this ill-mannered fellow, who indeed just tried his hand at stealing from his mother.

“But for you, Bucky.”

 There’s a hand held out for him to take.

_Standards be damned, he’d suck him off for a nickel, probably._

 “Tony. Tony Stark.” Tony doesn’t reach, and after a moment, watches the man’s hand flop uselessly to his side.

 “Aren’t you ashamed? Tryin’ to steal an old lady's automobile?” Tony is testing the waters, which seem enticingly inviting at the moment, as if maybe he hadn’t just caught a car thief after pulling one off in his bedroom. “I could scream for help, you know. Right now; I could.” Tony knows he’s not going to scream—he won’t even tell this guy to get lost, or that he’s got somewhere to be momentarily.

“I been thinking about buying me a new one. No need for screamin’, sugar.” James, Bucky for him, says. There’s a lengthening smirk on his face that makes Tony want to drag him to some quack dentist to get his gums filled with cement.

At the same time, Tony’s never wanted to spread his legs so quickly after seeing such a condescending show of teeth.

“Bull. You don’t got money for dinner, let alone to buy no car.” Tony crosses his arms, thinking again on that casualty in Bucky’s posture. He has to remind his sliding moral compass that this git was just trying to rob him, no matter what he looks like. “And if you don’t plan on explaining your nonsense, then how ‘bout you just get—“

“Now I do got enough money for cokes, and since it don't look like you're gonna invite me inside—“

“You'd steal the dining room table if I did.”

“Come to town with me, then. How'd that be?”

 Tony swallows. “I was headed to work anyway.”

 He sees that infuriating show of teeth again. 

* * *

It’s a hot Texas night, all dim and black and dusty. Tony had insisted on walking the block to town, and that manner of mutual impudence is still pervading between with each subsequent step. Bucky is witty, but Tony won’t be letting such a bastard get the one-up on him.

“You’re going to work? What is it you do?” Bucky’s bought them each a coke now, and they stand together next to a street sign drinking them.

Tony thought his obnoxious work uniform already gave it away, but if Bucky was asking, then maybe it does pass as casual attire for a person that’s never been to town before.

“What do I look like I do?” Tony asks, sarcastic anyway. The repartee between them is amusing in ways now often absent in Tony’s life, so he’ll take it where he can get it.

Bucky puts on an ostentatious act of pretending to give the question serious thought. “A movie star…? No, a mechanic—or, you cut grass?”

“What do you think I do?” Tony’s eye twitch makes the offense he’s taken visible.

“You wait tables.” Bucky doesn’t hesitate as he answers. Of course he knew. Of fucking course.

Tony doesn’t give verbal confirmation, because it’s evident that Bucky already knows he’s hit the bulls-eye. Instead, Tony diverts, because he’s been good at that all his life, whether he's in New York or Texas be damned.

“What line of work are you in? When you're not stealin' cars that is.”

“I tell you, I'm lookin' for suitable employment right at the moment,” Bucky responds with a half-grin. They continue their little walk, aimlessly wandering towards what’s ahead, although Tony knows the diner is closer than desirable. He doesn’t want this to end so quickly.

“What did you do before?”

With nonstop badinage since they’ve met within the hour, Tony wasn’t expecting much pause before Bucky spoke again, but of course he can’t claim to know so much about James Barnes to where expectations are commonplace. It takes Bucky a few steps to answer. When he does it’s with a hefty tone.

“I was in State Prison.”

“State Prison?“ Tony is shocked, although logically he shouldn’t feel so—

“Yeah. It was armed robbery.”

“My, my, the things that turn up in the driveway these days. Talk about hard times.” Tony hides his shock with sarcasm, although what he’s hiding with shock is unadulterated fascination.

_State Prison huh?_

They reach the corner and turn, having arrived on main street. Small shops and empty day-market carts litter the sides of the dirt road. Picket signs and posters cover  _every_ standing wall.

_FORWARD_

_with_

_ROOSEVELT_

_VOTE DEMOCRATIC_

Tony’s never been one to favor the work of politicians. Even less so after the great crash. It’s easy, however, putting the blame on whoever’s in office when shit hits the fan. Perhaps he’ll vote for the first time, but everyone knows with hoovervilles spreading like wildfire.

Not much voting will be necessary to boot Hoover out of office. Perhaps he won’t vote at all.

Bucky shakes him from thought, halting at a fire hydrant, causing Tony to run into him from behind.

“What do y'all do for a good time around here, listen to the grass grow?”

It’s a typical small-town street of barber shops, cafes, groceries, and everything in between. At the moment, it’s deserted. Empty besides them on the sidewalk and those unfortunate as Tony to be working so late inside their barely busy stores.

Bucky looks around.

“Guess you had a lot more fun up at State Prison, huh?” Tony quips, enjoying the sound of Bucky’s preceding laugh.

They continue walking in silence past a few stores, both of them formulating what will be said next.

“What's it like?” Tony picks up the conversation again.

“Prison?”

Borderline interest can go a long way, Tony thinks again. “ _No_. Armed robbery.”

Bucky thinks it a silly question, Tony can tell, but he isn’t deferred from asking. He needs to know. Just asking such a thing feels like tiptoeing around broken glass. It gives him a pleasurable feeling of anxiety at his core, a new type of sensual sordidity that makes his skin crawl just right. Instead of perpetual boredom, Tony feels base and ignoble and seedy.

He craves more of it.

“It's...I don't know...it isn't like anything.”

Thinking he’s heard proof that Bucky is a liar, Tony almost snorts. “Hah! So you were lying? I knew you never robbed nowhere. Can’t say nothing about it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky seems to study him for a moment, then makes up his mind.

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun, the glossy paint on it reflecting faintly in the moonlight.

Tony can’t help looking at it with fascination. The weapon has an immediate effect on him.

He reaches forward, unwavering as he touches it in a manner almost sexual, full of repressed excitement, and Tony can’t explain nor get enough of the electric feeling his fingertips gather as he drags them across the smooth black surface.

_A real gun!_

“You got one alright, I guess…but you wouldn't have the gumption to use it,” Tony urges, and his heavy gaze on the weapon doesn’t waver.

If Bucky notices, he doesn’t say anything, however, for the both of them, any attempt at maintaining masks of nonchalance has heeded to anticipation of imminent adrenaline.

“You just wait here. Keep those big eyes open.”

Tony watches as Bucky goes into the little store. For a minute nothing happens, and Tony can barely see what is going on inside. Then, Bucky comes out, his steps slow, and there’s an unwavering confidence in his posture that’s got Tony licking his lips.

In one hand, Bucky holds the gun, in the other a fistful of money.  He gets halfway to Tony and smiles broadly at him, a smile filled with excessive charm and personality.

Tony smiles back. His heart is beating faster than he can think.

Suddenly, the presumed owner of the little store comes running out into the street. The poor man, Tony notices, looks completely dumbfounded. He stands there and says nothing, yet his mouth moves in silent protest as he stares at the two people in front of him, the gun, and his cash.

Bucky’s smile doesn’t falter—turns sinister, rather—when he points the gun above him and fires.

The loud noise, one Tony’s not familiar with, should scare him.

Instead he’s curling his toes in excitement.

The old man, terrified, runs back into the store as fast as he can, and Bucky quickly grabs Tony’s hand before pulling him along to run down the street towards the store’s lot. There’s a singular car, probably the shop owner’s, parked neatly in the dusty dirt ground. As soon as they reach it, Bucky nudges Tony towards the passenger side, and goes to lift the car’s hood. Tony watches, dazed, as Bucky cross-wires the car to get it to start. Bucky then runs over to the door, opens it, shoves Tony over, and starts up the engine.

They're pushing on 90 miles per hour within minutes. Tony has no clue where they're going, nor does he care. He can't help but give into the adrenaline, the thrilling rush of the moment that's got him tingling all over. He leans back and briefly cups himself through his pants before side-eyeing Bucky. And then he launches to his side, kissing the side of Bucky's mouth, biting his ear, running his hands over Bucky's chest while he drives.

Bucky cusses and slows the car down to a stop, he pulls them over off to the side of the barren road and turns to grip Tony's shoulders.

“I know your type,” Bucky interrupts his frisking.

“Excuse me?” And Tony hates being interrupted, but Bucky had already done such a nice job of interrupting him--this time, and before they even knew each other's names.

“You weren’t born around here, right?”

Tony takes a deep breath to calm himself down, and wills himself not to open his mouth as Bucky continues what’s beginning to sound like a fantastical psychoanalysis of him.

“Come from a small family? Parents didn’t treat you right? You didn't take to school much because you was a lot smarter than everyone else, so you just up and quit one day. Maybe had you some tutors. Now, when you were sixteen—seventeen—there was a guy who worked in a…”

“Supply store.”

“Yes, a supply store, some Johnny or Stevie or sum’thin. And you liked him, 'cause he thought you were just as nice as you could be. And you almost ran off with that guy. At seventeen. Trying to prove pops wrong? But then you thought no, you didn't think you would. Too much to lose, and he didn’t have what you wanted. And now times are hard, and you ended up here, got you your job in the diner,” Bucky gestures to Tony’s work uniform. The fabric of his shirt is faded, and there aren't any street lamps above them out in the middle of nowhere. “And now you wake up every day and you hate it. You just hate it. You get on down there and you put on your white uniform...”

“Pink. It’s pink.”

“...And them truck drivers come in there to eat your greasy burgers and they kid ya, and you kid 'em back. But they're stupid and dumb boys with the big ol' tattoos on 'em, and you don't like it. And they ask ya on dates, and sometimes you go but you mostly don't because all they're ever tryin' to do is get in your pants whether you want 'em to or not. So you go on home and you sit in your room and you think, 'Now when and how am I ever gonna get away from this?' And you've known the answer for a time now. You can’t. You won’t.”

Tony suddenly feels halted, slowed down. As if it’s an off night well-spent at the grimy bar across from the diner. His burst of adrenaline is misplaced, fading. More so, he’s disturbed and can express nothing to say to hide it. He’s always known himself as an escapist. Always exiting the uncomplicated, dull life he lives to go on exhibitions in the fray of his mind. That's usually the best he can do to pull himself out of that town—even momentarily—that town that holds nothing for him apart from a shitty reality, his mother, and some accustomed semblance of stability. Since Tony met him so few hours ago, Bucky’s been picking away at that stability.

Tony’s cheeks flare, and his brows dip as he raises his index finger to point up at Bucky’s nose. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, or who you think I am, but—you...that-you’re wrong,” he spits out. Smooth. There’s a lack of venom in his tone that his words imply should be there, and he can’t account for where it’s gone.

“You’re a mouthful of shit,” Tony continues. “What’s stoppin’ me from ringing up the fuzz—“

“You ain’t gonna.”

 Interrupted again.

 “Come with me, Tony.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gunplay ahead. might as well take advantage of the fact that theyre in texas. there are no other reasons for me to write a fic set in texas.
> 
> also, wheezes. this entire fic in 4 words: bucky shoots his shot.

_What?_

“Do I needa repeat myself? Come with—”

“Quiet down. I heard you plenty.”

Tony takes a deep breath. God knows he needs to steady himself, after being so readily needy and excited and prepared to take on the world. Could this be it? Tony’s daydreamed escape. Bucky, who he had met no less than an hour ago, who had committed robbery to prove a point, who had hot wired a car and _owns a real gun_.

“Listen boy, you've just done and read me like a book, and now you expect me to just, what, run off with you? How 'bout you take me home this second! What does this," Tony gestures wildly to the stolen money on the car seat, "make me? And you—what makes you any different from any other stupid trucker? How do I know you’ve got what I want?”

“For starters, I don’t drive no truck.” Bucky reaches up to card through Tony’s hair and takes a moment to stare at him. It’s hard to see in the darkness of the car, and since they’ve parked, it’s gotten significantly hotter in the vehicle.

“And I know I’ve got what you want. Course I do. I’ve got it right here.”

A slight sense of anticipation pools in Tony’s gut as he stares back at Bucky, watches him, without breaking eye contact, reach into his pocket and pull out his little black gun. The smooth surface still seems to glitter even with the small amount of moonlight shining into the dark car.

Tony’s breath hitches when he looks down at it.

“Eyes up, sweets.” Bucky grips the gun casually, like it belongs in his hand, like he’s going to use it for something trivial. He presses the barrel underneath Tony’s chin and uses it to push Tony’s head back up. Tony lets him. The desire to once again feel the smooth, glossy texture of the weapon against his skin distracts him from his heart hammering in his chest.

“You wouldn’t have the gumption to use it.” Tony finds himself whispering, the words from earlier again ready to dictate Bucky’s actions.

He’s almost feeling lightheaded, his gut pooling with anxiety and fear and _heat_. The tense silence in the car is full of savage and unrefined coquetry.

“Tony, darlin’, what makes me different from any Johnny or Stevie, or any trucker in the goddamn whole of Texas, is that _I’ve already got you.”_

‘Wrapped around my finger,’ goes unsaid, but Tony concedes without needing to hear it.

In fact, he’d conceded the moment Bucky had come strolling out of that damn corner store like he owned the place, and Bucky knew it. He knew it like he’d known Tony’s job, his story, his life.

What’s different about Bucky, is that he’s known exactly what Tony wants, craves, and desires since he saw him naked from his bedroom window.

 _An easy target_ , Bucky had first thought, _he likes them bad._

But now, now they’re both enraptured with each other. There’s a mutual attraction between them—two moths mating near a flame of adrenaline and debauchery.

“You’re awfully quiet now, Tony.”

Bucky is right, he’s being uncannily silent. But that’s because he has nothing to say, not when his pants are too tight because he’s got a loaded gun pointed at his throat.

“That’s okay. We can work with that. Ain’t that right baby? Give me a nod.”

Tony slowly nods his head yes, and swallows as he stares, no longer at the gun, but at Bucky. He can still feel it, and see it with his peripheral vision, the muzzle dragging up his chin until it’s pressed flat against his lips.

Tony opens his mouth.

The metallic taste is a sharp contrast to the aftertaste of cola, and Tony finds that rushed, anxious bundle of heat in his gut is all the proof he needs that Bucky is indeed, very different.

The barrel of the gun is suddenly shoved forward, clacking against Tony’s teeth as he messily wraps his lips around it, snug and comfortable. He’s still staring at Bucky as he brings his hands up and prods at Bucky’s wrist. Predictably, Bucky smirks and pushes his free hand back into Tony’s hair. Tony feels Bucky’s grasp on the tufts of hair get tighter, and his head is being moved back and forth for him before he could think to do it himself.

No words are exchanged between them as Tony clambers into Bucky’s lap and begins fiddling at his trousers. Once his cock is out of his fly, he wraps his hand around it and squeezes his eyes shut with a shudder of pleasure.

“Sweetheart, that’s awfully selfish of you.” Bucky rasps, but Tony doesn’t seem to care. He only regains somewhat of an attention span when Bucky yanks his hand off of himself and replaces it with a firm tight squeeze accompanied by a sudden lurch forward of the gun barrel into his mouth that makes Tony gag and causes spit to dribble down his chin.

“Let me do my job and steal you away real good and proper,” Bucky continues, “all you need to do is move those perky hips of yours.”

And Tony does. He grinds down against the nicely sized bulge in Bucky’s pants while he lets him fuck his mouth with the revolver and tug on his cock—all while he envisions the perfect picture of Bucky walking out of that convenience store and firing that shot into the air.

Tony drools around the gun, licks and swallows around it. The heat in the car only seems to melt around them, the confined space making it difficult to move anywhere else. The sounds of crickets and cicadas outside are muffled by their sweaty clothes rubbing together and the occasional click of polished metal against teeth.

“God sugar, you’re perfect.” Bucky groans out his praise before he yanks the handgun from Tony’s needy mouth. Tony’s subsequent whine is halted when Bucky replaces the barrel of the gun with his tongue.

And as they share a hot, metallic kiss in a stolen car on the side of that dark, Texas road, Tony knows he’s finally escaped.

And he wouldn’t trade that feeling for all the stability in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> this is based off of various bonnie & clyde content, mostly the 1967 film, but also the musical and actual historical accounts of bonnie parker and clyde barrow.
> 
> the bolded poem i awkwardly stuck in there is a short one about clyde barrow called "life from the gutter up" by david otis.
> 
> so im slowly easing myself into writing fics again but for whatever reason this was kind of hard for me to finish (i put this mf on hold for like 2? 3? weeks and just let it marinate in google docs) i was tired of looking at it so i hiked up my mom jeans and got 'er done. constructive criticism is welcomed!


End file.
